Simon picked his way over the rocky path, both his ankles pulsing with pain. The scree ribbon twisted over hills that had not borne grain for generations. All it gave was dust to any wind cruel enough to scream. His eyes were set on the horizon, on a lonesome tree, its sparse leaves becoming a mid-summer dandruff. He trudged, his footsteps with neither accompaniment of birdsong nor floral scent.
"It turns out, as obviousness would have it, that our brains (especially those of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in this case) have been teaching us neurology through comic books and the movies that have come from them."
Full article linked to from my profile, click "abraham" below, awesome!!
The pounding of my heart is a windowless and doorless room. A skull-storm rages on and on. How it booms, sending me back to the floor. How the electrical strikes blind. My limbs have trembled for so long that it is all I know. Fear and trembling. Is that a book? It sounds like a book. It should be a book.
"When we make daily choices that are emotionally indifferent, the sort that the money-nexus makes faux-virtues of, we build our capacity for emotional indifference at the direct expense of our capacity for empathy, and thus the conflict between money and love is laid bare."
"Adjective and noun associations are worthy of our consideration because by careful linkage of words such as 'black' with strong emotionally positive words (such as in 'black heavens' and 'noble black night') we can start to program subconscious bias from the brain by creating a background neurochemistry that is more positive. This keeps the prefrontal cortex more fully operational and encourages more empathy in both thoughts and behaviours. Thus society develops better through their own choices and evolves. This is part of social evolution and this kind of awareness in writers is essential."
From the safety of the shadows, she watched. Remaining hidden was the only guarantee of seeing another day, yet it also guaranteed his end. Then who was it that would wake up tomorrow? Not this version of her, not a version of herself she would ever respect or forgive. To go out there alone, however, would most certainly mean two body bags instead of one. So, she raised the silent alarm, prayed her friends would arrive in time, and struck a bold pose in the streetlamp’s glow.
In that storm she stood tall as the rain washed clean off her and onto the blacktop street. As all others ran for shelter, she welcomed the rumble of skies as an old friend, her hands upon her head as if she were bathed in a powerful hymn, as if it all were no more than a rock-n-roll cathedral. Then, slowly at first she turned around and around, until finally she danced as if in a broadway musical.
"For writers in the next half century and beyond, a comprehension of how creative writing, neurology, biology and our environment interact will be essential for a successful career."
- a link to the full article is in my bio and on the Descriptionari "About" page.
- you can email me using either AngelaCarolineAbraham@gmail.com or AngelaDescriptionari@outlook.com for a quote on tutoring and/or editing services.
Much love!!!
Angela Abraham (Daisy)
It was a brassy wind-up clock, the kind with a butterfly key. It sat there in crepuscular rays, bathed in fingerprinted dust. Tick tock. Tic tock. How tinny was its heartbeat, how small it was in the vastness of the room. No batteries required, simply a regular and repeated twist, crunching its cogs back into tension's repose. At least it's singing told us that he'd been here in the last day or so.
The trees are veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks sombre brown with sable cracks that gnarl the bark. As my eye travels to the edge of the woodland they become silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it is only daylight where I stand, as if I am encircled by twilight.